This is a conclusion to the 'Matchmaking Mary' series and can I just say, this has been my most popular work so far. I love all of you for making me continue this.
"No he's not."
"He definitely is."
"There is no way."
"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, is the truth."
"Something like Sherlock Holmes being in love with Molly Hooper is as impossible as it is improbable," said John, exasperated.
His wife's eyes glittered, and John knew there was no point arguing.
Mary Watson was the kind of woman who had a terrifying knack for making bang on assumptions, with bang on bets. She was the kind of woman who could stare you out into confessions. She was the kind of person who caused John's toes to curl when her eyes glittered like that – and John was a soldier, Sherlock Holmes' best friend, and her husband.
"Let's look at the facts," said Mary, her face glowing, "He's the one deducing her boyfriends to dust. She's the only other friend he has had, and she's handled him longer than you ever have (six years, John! That's no small number where Sherlock Holmes is concerned!) and she knows his little habits. He's deeply possessive of her, makes her feel better in whatever atrophied way he has learned, and actually wished her well when he came back (she told me about it). Do you have anything to say for Mr. Holmes' behaviour?"
John opened his mouth, and shut it again. "He has known her for six years?" asked John in a hushed whisper.
"That's what you got out of it?"
"That's the only thing that was solid evidence," said John reasonably.
"Fair enough," said Mary. "So, what are we going to do about it?"
"What do you mean, 'we'?" asked John.
"Oh come on, John!" whined Mary. "We're a team! A couple! Married! Isn't there something in the marriage contract about this? We're the unstoppable Cupids! The Matchmaking Doubles! The Sherlolly Captains!"
"Woah, woah – wait a minute, what?" asked John. "First of all, I object heavily to any sort of double name for the both of us as Matchmakers. Second of all, 'Sherlolly Captains'?"
"It's a mesh of their names. It's cute," said Mary, shrugging.
"No, it's weird," said John. "Please go to bed, Mrs. Watson, the pregnancy is getting to you."
Mrs. Hudson was used to strangeness. Sherlock's room was a myriad of different explosions and strange happenings. At this point, she had learned to live with whatever the boy got up to. She had her own problems, after all – a hip that constantly hurt, herbal soothers that needed to be used before their effects became more harmful than advised.
She had certainly been glad when Sherlock brought John Watson as a flatmate. The good Doctor managed to keep the boy in check, and heaven only knows how overdue Sherlock was with the rent. It was a pity that John did not clean that well. And that they did not end together – but Mary was a fairly nice person.
And then Mrs. Hudson had met Molly Hooper. Of course, she had seen Molly Hooper before – memorably to deliver some an arm in a fridge. She knew the girl was odd in her own ways, and possibly the oldest friend Sherlock had along with Greg Lestrade.
Apparently, that the girl was half in love with Sherlock wasn't enough for him – he had her live with him – for security, well, Mrs. Hudson scoffed at the idea.
But she was nice – she kept the apartment relatively clean, cooked and baked, and came down for tea. She made Sherlock his morning tea, so that Mrs. Hudson did not have to do it any longer. She genuinely liked the old lady, and Mrs. Hudson easily liked her back. It wasn't Molly who was the problem these days.
Sherlock had become all odd after a few weeks of her stay. He tended to go down to Mrs. Hudson for advice – and about the oddest things! "Is it inappropriate of me to use the bathroom before her?" "Is it alright if she is on her menstrual cycle and I go on a case?" Well, initially, Mrs. Hudson had chalked it up to having a woman living.
It was only when Sherlock became frustrated at Molly making friends with other people in Sherlock's life that Mrs. Hudson understood finally.
Oh, the poor boy.
"Oh, no – I'm perfectly fine, thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Molly.
Sherlock glared at Mycroft.
Mycroft was never helpful. The very idea was preposterous. Yet, here he was, trying to help Molly with the laundry basket. It was nauseating. It made his stomach turn. Sherlock could also offer Molly for help, just so everybody knew.
"As if you have ever offered," John-Watson-of-his-head said.
"It doesn't mean she should fraternize with the enemy," replied Sherlock angrily.
"God, Sherlock – you want her so much, just snog her!"
Sherlock was momentarily startled by this reply. If he could admit it to himself, Molly Hooper had proved to be a very annoying fixture in his life – she made him want physical attachment, of all things. And seeing her replace him with other people made Sherlock seethe.
"Would you like some cake, Mr. Holmes?" asked Molly. "I made some fresh pineapple one."
"That would be – ah, lovely, Miss Hooper."
"You really ought to start calling me Molly," said Molly absentmindedly, as she cut a slice of cake.
"Molly, I suppose –"
"Would you like to stay for dinner? I know Sherlock's going out –"
That did it.
"For God's sake!" yelled Sherlock. Both the individuals looked at him – Molly with confusion, Mycroft with raised eyebrows.
"Is that how it works? Everyone else gets to have dinner with you except me? You didn't even know Mary before this, for crying out loud! And Mycroft, really? He's not even human in his detachment, Molly! You can meet all these people (even Philip Anderson!) and not me? Since when did you become such a social butterfly?"
"Um – I didn't know you wanted to –" began Molly. Mrs. Hudson popped in. "I heard someone yelling? Is everything alright Molly dear?"
Sherlock glared at Mrs. Hudson. "See what I mean?" he said vehemently. Mycroft raised his eyebrows further.
"Um – no?"
Sherlock advanced upon her, "Are you a complete idiot, Molly?" challenged Sherlock. "Any idiot would have noticed – I asked you for dinner, there were very clear physical symptoms of anger when you went out with Mary, and a very territorial expression when Mary came to visit you in the morgue (that's my area for God's sake!), and my pulse is racing. I know you deal with dead people, but you should have known!"
"Oh, I understand," said Mrs. Hudson then, with dawning understanding. "Do get on with it, Sherlock, it's been quite hard living around you while she's been here."
"What?" asked Molly, confused.
"Long overdue, baby brother," said Mycroft absently. "Well, I really should be off. I have no intention of staying while you indulge in – well, whatever it is. Good day Miss Hoo – Molly."
"Hang on, what?" asked Molly.
"I believe the expression is 'He's going to snog your pants off,' said Mycroft blithely. "I give you my blessing – even though Sherlock is baring his teeth at me. I expect an heir in a year, I hope you know."
"Pardon?" said Molly weakly.
"Molly dear, do try to listen to Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson.
"I am listening," said Molly earnestly. "I'm working on believing."
"Go away, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.
Mrs. Hudson walked off, muttering about the rude boys living in her apartment and how much better Molly was, in general. Mycroft bowed a little, and glanced at Sherlock briefly, walking off himself.
"This is all Mary's doing," said Sherlock, as soon as the door was closed. He looked at her intently, and he was much, much too close for Molly's liking. She felt cornered, and she took a few steps backwards.
"It was?" asked Molly.
"Yes. She egged me into this." He didn't seem to have an idea about Molly's nervousness in the close proximity, for he kept moving forward, towering over her.
"She did?" said Molly, who looked at a loss of words. She'd hit the kitchen counter.
"She kept making me jealous about spending time with you. Why do you spend time with her and not me?"
"I didn't think you wante – Mmmphff."
It didn't take a Consulting Detective to know what shut Molly Hooper up in that moment. Molly maintained until her deathbed that Sherlock Holmes was a disgusting human being for forcing her into it, for all he knew, she didn't want to be snogged. Sherlock only grinned at these accusations, and said, "I have a whole separate room for that moment, Molly, so don't pretend you didn't want to."
The intensity of the kiss was such that Molly quite wondered what Sherlock Holmes had been holding back for so long. She whimpered a little, as he further pressed himself to her. She was far too small, thought Sherlock as he went on with it. But she had a nice nose – small enough to not be in the way, was his afterthought. The only thing Molly could think of was, OH MY GOD SHERLOCK HOLMES HAS HIS TONGUE IN MY MOUTH. It only escalated after that.
"Oh, hello," said Molly later, to Mrs. Watson.
"Hello," said Mary, walking into 221B. "I just came to return that bag I borrowed, Molls."
"Oh, thanks," said Molly with a sheepish smile. Sherlock was reading the newspaper, and paid no attention.
"Everything alright between you two?" asked John, popping from behind.
To Molly's credit, she didn't glance at Sherlock. She smiled, and said "Yeah, perfectly fine."
"Because Mrs. Hudson said there was yelling...?" went on John.
"No, nothing," said Molly, going a little pink.
Mary surveyed the woman briefly.
"They shagged," she deadpanned.
"I thought I was the only one who saw it," muttered John.
Molly went completely red. Sherlock's face emerged from behind the newspaper.
"I'm insulted they didn't tell me," said Mary. "I was the one pushing them together."
"I'm – um – dunno what you're –" stammered Molly.
"Leave it, Molly," sighed Sherlock. "Mrs. Watson is a little busybody who would have found out in a second."
"That's my wife you're talking about," said John.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "While I am impressed with the improvement in your deductive skills, I must ask you to leave. You're making my pathologist uncomfortable."
"Sherlock!" Molly admonished.
"What? They are!"
"You don't say things like that!" said Molly. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I've made spaghetti."
Mary had a smile of utmost mirth. Sherlock maintains that it was a smile of evil, and only Jim Moriarty could rival the deadly thing that Mary Watson was. Mary found this highly amusing, and based on that comment alone, decided to torture Sherlock by staying for dinner. Molly could do nothing except shake her head, continue cooking the spaghetti – it was her Grandmother's recipe, after all. John felt uncomfortable at first, but once the Sherlock and Molly sitting on a tree chest was opened, quite lost all his inhibitions.
But Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to care, for Molly smiled at him gently, and gripped his hand under the table.
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